


Hopeless Wanderer

by Magnolia822



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Character Death Fix, Coda, Confusion, Fix-It, Friendship, M/M, Memories, Reincarnation, Season/Series 05, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-22 08:16:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin has been wandering the world for hundreds of years alone; one day a young blond man moves into the flat upstairs. But does Arthur remember? Post S 5 reincarnation fic. Spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Emmy for britpicking and to Sonofsilly for the preread! This is just the first part of a longer fic, which will update as I write.

Prologue

It wasn’t the worst place he’d lived. He supposed it was suitable enough for his needs, just a studio flat with a kitchen and adjoining bedroom in a three-story building in one of London’s more student-populated districts. He enjoyed living amongst the young, though not many of them even acknowledged him except to offer a wary ‘afternoon Mr. Emrys’ when he ran into one of his neighbours coming or going on the stairs, the girl or boy hurrying off to classes or the pub and Emrys on his way to the Tesco for milk or bread, the things he could still eat easily with his ancient teeth.

It wasn’t the worst place he’d lived, but nor was it the best. There had been years when he’d ventured far from England—had found himself in Spain, Italy, China, walked the long white beaches of Buenos Aires and even climbed the strange monuments at Chichen Itza, waiting while the sun set to catch the glimmer of a shadow that might remind him of another place, another set of stones on a broad plain. 

There had been years of wandering and years of standing still. Years of watching the landscape alter around him, tall buildings replacing the modest wooden structures of his youth, the walls of the castle at Camelot crumbling to dust, lost to history and the passage of time. He’d done his best to protect the kingdom he and Arthur had created together—had destroyed the Spanish Armada off the coast, deflected the worst of the bombs during the terrible Blitz. No one ever knew, and still people died, people always died. Children. Men. Women. And Merlin grew weary as Prime Ministers were elected and the world changed. 

Now tourists visited the places that had defined his life, relegated to myth or worse, fantasy. No one remembered King Arthur as he was or Merlin when he was beautiful. If they thought Emrys odd or quaint with his long white beard and wizened face, it was because he reminded them of another wizard, a Gandalf or Dumbledore, from books Emrys himself had read and chuckled over. 

How people misunderstood magic. For the young people that inhabited his building, it wasn’t a matter of fear at all so much as disbelief. He’d learned the hard way that to speak of magic in this time and place was a risk, especially at his presumed age (they didn’t know who he was—timeless, of the earth, the air, the sea, waiting). Some thought he was crazy, others humoured him and smiled politely, and so he hadn’t spoken of magic to anyone in years, or of Albion, or his long-dead and beloved King. 

So he’d taken this flat in this corner of London and tried to remember why he’d been gifted this most horrible fate, to exist in this body for all of eternity without lover or friend, never sure what his father had once told him was true. He hadn’t understood then in the cave, when Balinor had said he’d always existed and always would; he hadn’t known the kind of loneliness that seeps into the bones and makes the body tired. He didn’t know then what it meant to live with a young man’s mind in an old man’s body, a body that would never die. Even in the days when he’d hidden his true self he had still had Gaius, Lancelot, Gwen, Gwaine—but they, too, were long dead. Like Arthur, his beautiful friend, who always remained the same in his memory, his words impossible to forget. 

_I don’t want you to change. I want you to always be you._

Oh, the irony of that sentiment now. 

Years passed. If Merlin’s landlord wondered about his strange tenant, he never complained and gladly accepted the money Merlin conjured from blank sheets of paper. Things grew, if not happy, settled. He watched the young people move in and out of the increasingly run-down building, even befriended some of them. They came by his flat and brought him things he didn’t need, taught him how to use the computer that sat dustily on his desk, were conscientious of his threshold for noise, though he surprised them all by not ever complaining. He loved the sounds of parties and feet stomping up wooden stairs, loud calls and laughter. He began to feel less like a ghost. 

And then one day a young man with golden hair moved into the flat upstairs.


	2. Daybreak

The day broke with the muffled thumping of boxes being moved overhead. One of the previous tenants had moved out, having grown tired of the constant noise of the students, and the flat had been vacant for a few weeks. They must have a new occupant.

Merlin, who rarely slept more than a few hours a night, was already up and brewing himself a cuppa when he felt his magic prickle under his skin. He thought nothing of it, as it wasn’t unusual at this time of day—his power had always been most active at daybreak and in the gloaming, those moments bracketing night and day that were neither, yet offered the possibilities of both. After turning off the electric kettle and drawing a book off the shelf of his wide bookcase, an ancient tome of spells he hadn’t looked at in years, so old and brittle that only magic held the binding together, he sat down at his small kitchen table and sipped his tea, enjoying the warmth that spread through his body. He’d always enjoyed this ritual. Even in the days of Camelot he had always taken a moment before attending Arthur in his chambers. Of course back then Gaius had made breakfast for him, a bit of bread or gruel (which he most certainly didn’t miss), and the two of them would sit and enjoy the peace of the castle before it came awake. Then Gaius would busy himself with whatever task he’d set for the day, and Merlin would be off with Arthur somewhere. The company, he missed. 

The ceiling creaked, and after a loud crash, Merlin smiled to himself as the new tenant swore through the floorboards, some combination of _bloody buggering arsefuck_. The last person to live upstairs, the widowed Mrs. Finley-Fletcher, had been quite an unpleasant neighbour, but Merlin had taken some comfort in the sounds of life she provided. It was rather nice to have the quiet broken again, even by colourful curses.

Another loud thump, another barrage of swearing. Perhaps he should introduce himself and offer some assistance to the new tenant. No time like the present, he thought ruefully.

Merlin climbed the stairs, careful to avoid the broken top step, and rounded the landing until he found himself in front of flat 2A, giving the door a gentle knock. 

His magic flared again, a swift current from toes to fingers, curious this time. His heart quickened, thinking about the last time it had reacted so wildly—that fateful day on the battlefield when he’d found Arthur lying on the ground wounded, a sword tip imbedded in his side, and again during their final moments together. A strange anticipation made his blood surge. And then, when the door swung open, Merlin gasped, reached back blindly for the wall behind to hold himself upright.

_Arthur._

_It couldn’t be. How._

Merlin felt he might faint. He closed his eyes, head swimming as centuries-old emotions, long dormant and repressed, threatened to overwhelm him. When he opened them again, Arthur was staring back at him, his beloved face cast in an expression of confusion. 

_Arthur._

In all of his years wandering he had met many men who resembled his King—recalled his colouring, his straight nose, his full lips and cocky smirk. Sometimes on the street he’d pass a man who made his heart catch in his throat for a moment before the inevitable crush of disappointment. There had been many days of despair, and since then he’d given up all hope that Kilgharrah’s promise for Arthur’s return would ever come to pass. After all, the Great Dragon had been wrong on more than one occasion—or if not wrong, not completely honest. He’d misled Merlin into believing he could save Arthur from his fate, when all along there’d been no escape from the prophecy. Merlin had been forced to watch the life drain from Arthur’s body, faced with the cruel irony of his death just as they finally realised what they meant to each other. They had been friends, never lovers. But also they had secretly been everything. Merlin always lived for Arthur. Even now after all of these years, he still lived for Arthur. 

“What did you just call me?” the man asked in Arthur’s voice, a trace of disbelief there. No, this was not one of those moments of false recognition. This _was_ Arthur; Merlin could feel it with every bone, every nerve-ending, all of the magic in the sea and sky and earth singing out in joy, curling through him, enlivening his body, saying yes to it, yearning for his impossible love. 

Merlin realised he was staring, dumb, that he must have said the name out loud, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak again. 

“How did you know my name?”

“I’m . . . the tenant downstairs,” Merlin finally managed, grasping for an explanation as the crushing realisation that Arthur didn’t remember him hit with full force. “Mr. Singh told me to expect you.” 

“Right,” said the man who was Arthur. “Sorry if I was being noisy.” He offered a smile and winced. “I dropped a huge bloody box on my toe. I don’t . . . I haven’t a clue, honestly, about moving.”

Merlin’s hand shot forward, needing to touch, to see if Arthur was real. “It’s no bother. I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Emrys. Merlin Emrys.” 

“Emrys,” Arthur said, testing the name out on his tongue. There was nothing, no spark of recognition. Merlin’s heart failed even as their hands met, too briefly, in a shock of warm skin to skin. He would have believed he was hallucinating if not for his magic, insistent and strong, gaining force and certainty with each moment. This was Arthur. This was real. “Pleased to meet you.”

Merlin’s palm burned with the flesh-memory of Arthur’s. He knew by propriety’s standards he was staring too long, that he should just make a pleasant comment of welcome and then retreat back to his own flat, but he couldn’t. He needed to know more, understand why Arthur didn’t know him. The other man was regarding him with a strange expression. 

“Welcome to the building,” Merlin said, trying to regain a semblance of normalcy. “So, where are you joining us from?” 

It wasn’t such a strange question—perhaps a little given how brief their interaction had been, but still Arthur reacted oddly. His expression grew troubled.

“I’m . . . well, I’m from,” he said, “not sure, really.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. This whole place,” he swept his arm around, “feels a bit like a dream to me. I woke up in hospital about six months ago, couldn’t recall who I was, where I was from, whether I had family. Just my name; I was certain of that. And . . . I honestly have no idea why I’m telling you all this, some stranger I just met, when I haven’t told anyone else before. Not safe to, really.” 

Merlin’s heart thudded to life again, his hope renewed. If Arthur had been awoken by magic it was possible that he’d lost his memory, wasn’t it? He’d been . . . gone for so long. Competing impulses warred within him—he wanted to fling himself into Arthur’s arms and kiss him, but then he remembered his own ancient face, and his gut clenched. Even if Arthur knew him, he never would have recognized this body, which had aged much slower than a normal human, but aged it had. He could no longer transform into his younger self at will; it was too much a drain of his power, and such a fix was merely temporary. He hadn’t even attempted it in decades. There was also the distressing potential that any revelation he might impose upon Arthur might be damaging—he couldn’t know the effects on Arthur’s mind, would have to research, perhaps there was a memory spell. 

“You have amnesia.” 

“That’s what the physicians said,” Arthur said. “But they couldn’t find any records, either. No one ever reported me missing.” Despite the casual shrug, Merlin could sense the dejection in it. His chest twisted in sympathy, the thwarted longing to comfort like a knife embedded within him. In all of humanity, he was uniquely sympathetic to the kind of utter loneliness Arthur had probably experienced.

“I’m . . . so sorry.” He wanted to press more, ask more questions, but feared doing so would anger or perhaps even frighten Arthur. 

“I’ve grown used to it now. Getting used to it, in any case, though at first it was strange. I couldn’t remember anything; even had to learn to use the telly. Strange thing. But I like it.” He shook his head. “Got a job, too, down the street at the chip shop.” 

At one point in his lowliest servitude Merlin would have found the idea of King Arthur working such a menial job diverting, but now it only filled him with sadness. From the moue on Arthur’s face, he wasn’t exactly thrilled about the prospect. There was more than a hint of the Arthur Merlin remembered in that grimace. 

“Oh. That’s nice.” Such a stupid thing to say, but half of him still suspected this was a dream, despite the way his magic zinged through his veins in a way it hadn’t since Arthur had died. 

“It’s terrible, but it’s something. Just until I get my feet under me, until I remember. I’m sure once I do this whole thing will seem a farce. Maybe I’m a millionaire. Or a prince.” 

Merlin smiled, swallowing down the tears that burned behind his eyes, and reached up to clasp the Sigil that he always wore around his neck, hidden. He hadn’t wept in a hundred years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to sonofsilly for the beta. This chappie is still awaiting a britpick, so all Americanisms (hopefully few) are mine. 
> 
> Yes, I know that Merlin is old and Arthur doesn't remember, just trust me :)


	3. The More Things Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Emmy for the britpick and sonofsilly for the preread/beta! xoxox

Merlin poured over his archive in the hopes of finding precedent for Arthur’s condition, growing ever more despondent at what he learned. There was a magical flower that only bloomed one night a year outside the walls of Camelot, a delicate, white-petalled thing that Gaius had once used in his most potent medicines, which had curative properties that healed the mind as well as the body. Merlin hadn’t seen one of those particular blossoms in years; as magic had faded from the world so too had many of the plants that depended on it. And then there was the legend that the touch of the unicorn’s horn could heal any ailment, restoring the injured to perfect health—yet Merlin was sure the last of those creatures had perished long ago. He found spells for restoring short-term memory, but warnings alongside them that advised caution: if the patient was not ready to handle the truth, those same spells could cause irreversible damage to the body and the soul. Merlin couldn’t risk it, wouldn’t risk it. There had to be another way.

He consulted medical textbooks and researched online—Merlin wasn’t a Luddite who didn’t recognise the uses of modern medicine and technology. He had trained as a physician twice more, first in the 18th century and then again early in the 21st, and had seen many cases of amnesia during that time. Still, he didn’t know how to approach Arthur’s case. Some experts stressed a patient’s need to come to terms with his past on his own, especially if the memory loss resulted from trauma, while others recommended ways to subtly coax lost memories from the subconscious. But this was _Arthur’s_ mind, and such clinical reports seemed an impersonal mockery. Never before had Merlin treated anyone he knew so intimately, and never had he been so invested in the outcome. It sickened him to think he might do something to hurt Arthur instead of help him.

Yes, Arthur had always been an exceptional man, and his ailment was no ordinary amnesia. A part of him might be forever gone. In his darker moments Merlin wondered if perhaps that wouldn’t be better in the end. If Arthur never remembered who he was, he’d never remember all he’d lost.

Merlin sighed and rubbed his temple, setting aside his work and going to the window. From his first-floor room, he could see the tenants coming and going, and Arthur always returned from his job at the chip shop at half-eight. 

In the weeks that had followed that first meeting, they had only seen each other passing, and when they did meet, Arthur seemed distant, almost as if he was embarrassed by what he’d confided. _Good evening, Mr. Emrys,_ or a _fine weather today_ , a quick glance in the hall and a nod; these were the humble acknowledgements that governed their interactions. It wasn’t nearly enough, and it reminded Merlin of when they had first met. Oh, how he’d hated Arthur then, had thought he was a spoiled, entitled arse—and of course Arthur had thought Merlin a complete idiot. That had changed, but at first there was an uncomfortable period of negotiation as their initial impressions had been challenged and revised. 

Yet even then there had never been indifference between them, not like now. Now, each cursory greeting stung, driving home the reality that Arthur, for whom he’d waited so long, didn’t remember him and maybe never would. But each of those moments was also the most precious thing, and Merlin treasured them all, so thankful of the gift of his friend, even the pain of it. He told himself he would live the rest of his life content just to see Arthur again; it was all that mattered. His magic agreed, more powerful than it had been in centuries, more alive and awake. 

Suddenly, his magic prickled, indicating Arthur’s presence approaching the building. Merlin’s heart stuttered as he watched the figure pass through the low streetlight, shoulders hunched to protect from the cold. The sound of Arthur’s footfalls on the stairs made him sigh with relief. He was home again, and safe.

It had taken some time to get used to the idea of Arthur leaving his flat. He worried constantly that something terrible would happen, that Arthur would disappear just as abruptly as he’d arrived. Or his greatest fear, that Arthur’d be injured and he wouldn’t be there to save him, again. Sometimes he followed behind at a safe distance and waited in the alley beyond the shop, not caring whether his actions were questionable, too wrapped up in anxiety to be concerned with discovery. Centuries before he’d fretted about boars and thieves, and now he dreaded car accidents, gang members. Then, as now, it was a thankless task, a job he loved.

Other afternoons he used his sight, sitting quietly in his flat and watching Arthur don an apron and take orders from rude and polite customers alike. Once he’d even gone into the shop to order from Arthur, accepting the paper-wrapped fish with a wistful pang when Arthur smiled.

Upstairs, the now-familiar thumps of Arthur in his flat were comforting; he turned on the telly and soon Merlin heard him chuckling along to whatever programme he was watching. That sound, at least, gave Merlin hope.

***

The next day, Merlin decided he could no longer sit idly by waiting for Arthur’s memory to return; he had to learn more about what had happened, see if Arthur recalled anything about his arrival at hospital, and there was no way he could do that given the current state of their interactions.

He would have to manufacture a way to get Arthur here and talking about his experience, and luckily, that afternoon provided him with that very opportunity.

“Blasted thing! I don’t know what you want, damn you.” Arthur’s voice in the corridor resonated; it was the moment Merlin had been waiting for. He quickly went to his door and swung it open. Arthur was standing on the stairs, brow furrowed as he considered something in his hand, which, from Merlin’s vantage, appeared to be a mobile. He cleared his throat to announce his presence. 

“Problem, Arthur?” 

The blond head turned and, seeing him, gave a half-smile, holding up the device. “I think it’s broken, and I just got it today.” 

“Let me take a look.” 

Merlin went towards the stairs, aware his heart had picked up speed, as it always did when they spoke. He gripped the rail, probably more vigorously than necessary.

“No, I’ll come down,” Arthur said as Merlin began his ascent. The tone of consideration in his voice was an unpleasant reminder of how he must look to Arthur, old and helpless. Probably with bad knees. Instead of protesting, though, he nodded and waited for Arthur to reach the bottom of the stairs. One of the third floor tenants, a brown-haired girl named Marissa, came home just as Merlin was about to speak—it was an awkward interruption; she smiled at him but had a huge grin for Arthur, and the two of them chatted for a moment as if Merlin wasn’t even there while something painful clawed his chest. 

When she was finally gone, Merlin tried to regain his equilibrium by inviting Arthur into his tiny flat. “What seems to be the problem with it?” Merlin asked once they were at his small kitchen table. Arthur frowned again at the mobile and passed it over. 

“It keeps talking to me.” 

It was an iPhone, the newest model, and Merlin gave it a quick once-over. It seemed to be in working condition. “Talking to you?” 

“Beeping and such. I press this button here,” Arthur said, gesturing, “when all I want to do is make the numbers appear.”

“You mean to make a call?”

“Yes. They showed me in the shop. It’s just . . . maybe I should have got a simpler one, but I liked this. They told me it’s the best.” 

Merlin couldn’t suppress a grin. “It is. It just takes a little practice.”

He took a few minutes walking Arthur through the basic steps again, waiting until he got the hang of how the touch screen worked. 

“Amazing,” Arthur said. “Like magic.” 

Merlin nodded, his smile fading. “A bit.” 

“You don’t seem to have any trouble at all. It’s . . .” 

“Surprising because I’m old? Well, let’s just say I’ve had a lot of experience.” In truth, until about ten years before, Merlin hadn’t cared much for computers or such gadgets, but once he’d been taught he’d found them quite fascinating. Arthur nodded, and it was quiet in the flat while he considered his phone, messing about with it. 

“Funny I don’t remember. I’m sure I probably had one of these before my . . . accident.”

“Most people do,” Merlin responded, thinking this might be the perfect way to ease Arthur into divulging more information. “You say you had an accident?”

Arthur sighed and leaned back in his chair. Then, to Merlin’s surprise, he lifted his shirt, unveiling a neat, pink scar about the width of a fist. It took everything in Merlin’s being to keep from reaching out to trace it with his finger. This, this little raised line is what had stolen Arthur from him, taken him before his time. He looked away, and his throat was dry when he spoke. 

“Do they know what happened?”

“They think it was a blade. The scar was fresh when I woke up, but I don’t remember. Fuck.” He pushed himself back from the table and sighed, then stood. Merlin’s magic raced along his limbs. It was strange he hadn’t felt his King awaken; obviously a great magical force had been responsible for healing him. For what end, Merlin couldn’t fathom. It frightened him.

“You can’t remember anything?” he asked. 

“Nothing. The doctors say they’ve never seen a case like it before.” He rolled his eyes. “The lot of them are idiots.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

But Arthur went on, leaning against the countertop. “You can’t imagine what it’s like. Everything is confusing to me—the roads, the buildings. Everything is strange. It’s better now, but at first . . . I had nothing.” 

“You might not believe me, but I know how that feels.” 

“Do you?”

Their eyes met, and for a moment they were at Camelot in Arthur’s chambers. Merlin could almost smell the wood smoke from the fireplace, could almost see the rich silk spread of the bed beyond. Arthur’s eyes looked the same, blue and clear. There was once a night before Guinevere was crowned queen when Merlin had fallen asleep in Arthur’s rooms next to him; they’d stayed up late talking and woken up close. He’d thought that Arthur might like to kiss him. He had wanted it so badly, had been so in love with Arthur by then. But the moment had passed, just like this one, broken when Arthur blinked and looked away. 

They were back in Merlin’s dismal flat in his small kitchen, and Merlin felt the weight of time crushing his shoulders once again. 

“You know, you seem so familiar to me. I can’t put my finger on it,” Arthur said softly. 

“Really?” 

“It’s probably nothing. My mind playing tricks on me. Sometimes I feel—never mind.”

“Like what?”

“Like I don’t belong here.” 

“Maybe you don’t.”


	4. A Forgotten History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Emmy for the Britpick and sonofsilly for the beta! xo

A couple of days later, Merlin answered the door startled and pleased to see Arthur standing with a bag of takeaway from the chip shop. He smiled. 

“For you,” Arthur said, handing it over. “For your help the other day with my mobile.” 

“Thanks.” The smell of hot grease made his stomach grumble, and he realised he hadn’t eaten all day; he’d been too wrapped up in his research to think of food. “You really didn’t have to.” 

“I know, but we get free dinner and to tell you the truth I’ve had enough of it to last a lifetime. You’d be doing me a favour.” 

“All right then.” Merlin looked down at his gnarled hand and nodded, then asked hesitantly, “Would you like to come in for a cuppa?” 

Arthur seemed surprised to be asked, and Merlin instantly regretted it. How foolish of him to think Arthur would want anything further to do with him, the strange old man downstairs. But Arthur just nodded and followed him in, taking a seat at the table while Merlin fiddled with the kettle, careful to do everything manually. He didn’t notice Arthur flipping through the book he’d left out until Arthur’s question turned him round.

“What’s this?” Arthur asked.

It was a new book on Arthurian lore written by an eminent Cambridge historian— a complete load of bollocks. Like all texts Merlin had encountered over the years, it attempted to locate the origin of the myth and theorize about the historical Arthur, but wound up a couple of centuries off, ultimately concluding that while Arthur may have existed, Merlin himself certainly had not. He’d found it quite humorous, actually, a distraction from the strange situation they’d suddenly found themselves in, but was Arthur reading it a good idea? He froze with the kettle in hand as Arthur flipped the pages. A tiny part of him hoped that even the misinformation might spark a memory. 

“Oh, just a little hobby of mine.” 

“Hmm.” Arthur’s brow was furrowed as he read a passage, and Merlin held his breath, watching. If Arthur had been himself, Merlin would have certainly made a snide remark—there had only been one other time he’d ever encountered the King with his nose in a book, and back then he’d only managed a couple of pages before declaring he was _so bored, Merlin._

“Merlin . . . the sorcerer,” Arthur muttered before looking up. “It’s a bit of an odd coincidence, your name, then.” 

“Isn’t it?” Merlin said carefully. “Let’s just say, that’s what initially caught my interest.” But Arthur wasn’t listening; he was still poring over the page, eyes wide. The glimmer of hope began to grow brighter, quickening Merlin’s pulse. 

“Ha. And King Arthur,” Arthur muttered more to himself than Merlin. “I think I remember hearing about him. I must have learned this in school.” 

“Really?” The question came out too eagerly. 

“I don’t know. I can’t be sure.” 

Not wanting to distract him, Merlin brought two mugs to the table, sliding one over and taking the seat across. His pulse was roaring in his ears, but he willed himself still and quiet. Perhaps this is what he should have done in the first place—maybe all Arthur needed was just a little push to break through whatever wall his mind had created. 

He lost track of time—it could have been hours but was probably merely minutes. The sounds of people talking and laughing on the street filtered in and cut the silence, which was as companionable as if they’d shared thousands of such moments. Of course they had, only Arthur didn’t know that. Merlin sipped his tea and resisted the urge to make shapes out of the steam as he waited.

“You don’t really believe in all of this, do you? These stories?” Arthur eventually said, clapping the book shut. Merlin’s heart sank, the disappointment coming swift and bitter. He’d felt sure Arthur was remembering. 

“Maybe I do. Stranger things have happened.” 

Arthur stood, his body tense in a way that suggested perhaps his flesh was recalling something even if his mind wasn’t. “But it’s not real. Look, it’s getting late. I . . . thank you for the tea, but you should probably eat your fish supper before it gets too cold.”

It probably already was, but Merlin didn’t care about any of that. He’d lost his appetite. 

“Thank you for it,” he said anyway. “I appreciate the kindness.” If someone had told him hundreds of years ago that he’d desperately miss bringing Arthur his breakfast in the morning and dinner at night, Merlin would have laughed. Now, though, he longed to sit and watch Arthur eat, maybe share a bite of whatever he couldn’t finish. Anything but this, watching him leave.

“Goodnight Mr. Emrys.”

“Please, call me Merlin.” 

Arthur nodded, and Merlin heard the door snick shut as he let himself out. Maybe some progress had been made after all, he thought, tracing his fingers over the book, imagining he could feel the residual warmth of Arthur’s touch. It would be best not to press too hard, too soon, and risk incurring damage. The mind was such a fragile thing, so easy to lose. 

Merlin couldn’t sleep at all that night, remembering the days following Arthur’s death in a way he hadn’t allowed himself in years. Immediately after the bier had drifted away to Avalon, he had stayed by the water’s edge for hours, not knowing where to go as the fog drifted in and stole the island from his sight. It was a place of magic, and he knew that Arthur would be safe there no matter what happened. 

After, when he had returned to Camelot, he’d discovered how many more they’d lost: loyal knights, friends, and worst of all—Gwaine. Percival had been inconsolable, roaming the corridors at night with a blank look on his face until Merlin finally used a sleeping spell to let him rest. Even so, he was never the same again. None of them were. Gwen was a fine, strong Queen, and Merlin advised her with the same loyalty he’d shown her husband, watched as she grew close to Leon and took comfort in him, though he never knew if they ever became intimate and suspected not. She’d been just, had revised the laws and become a beloved figurehead as the kingdom thrived, peaceful for those with magic and those without. 

He imagined Arthur watching from somewhere beyond the mists of Avalon, and hoped he was proud Merlin had fulfilled their destiny. 

Now, in his tiny flat, he felt impotent. Even if Arthur finally remembered, Merlin would never have what he wanted—what he had been denied for so long. Mortal love, not the eternal longing he’d been cursed with, but a real life. An ordinary life. And Arthur would never love him like this. Merlin scowled at the age spots and raised veins on his hands and arms, and impulsively whispered the spell he hadn’t used in so long, wondering what would happen. 

At once his magic surged and the lights above flickered. 

The skin before him whitened, became smooth instantly. Elated, he ran to the mirror and was met by a clear, young complexion. He laughed out loud, and the sound was familiar . . . he sounded like himself. But before his smile faded the lines began to reappear, sinking his features, knitting his face back into the old Merlin he so seldom regarded in the mirror. He cursed and the mirror splintered around his exhalation. 

The next day, weary from lack of rest, Merlin made a decision. 

If he was ever to learn what had happened to Arthur, he would have to go to Avalon.


	5. The Dragon's Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Emmy for the britpick and sonofsilly for the beta. The BBC/Shine own Merlin; I'm just making him happy again.

He left before dawn, packing only the barest essentials as he didn’t plan to be away for long, and boarded a train at London Paddington for the four-hour journey. It had been nearly a year since he’d last made this trip, as he always did on the anniversary of Arthur’s death, and the memory wasn’t a pleasant one. On that day, staring out over the lake towards the barely visible island, the roar of traffic in the distance a persistent reminder of modernity, he’d finally lost all hope that Arthur would ever return. If all of the terrible wars and pestilence of the twenty-first century hadn’t provided a reason for the once and future king to rise again, what would? He’d decided to end the yearly pilgrimage to Arthur’s resting ground for good. 

Now, so much had changed it was difficult even for Merlin to comprehend. Somehow, Arthur had risen and managed to find his way to him—the reason why remained a mystery. Merlin hoped the Sidhe Elder, the last of his kind, might offer some explanation. Once a pestilent, troublesome race, the Sidhe had begun to die off as the world forgot magic. Although Merlin had never cared for the creatures, he’d been sympathetic to their plight—had even tried to help. For his troubles he’d earned the begrudging respect of the Elder. Hopefully it would be enough. 

After the train journey and a long walk Merlin had travelled countless times, he found himself looking down on the silver waters of the lake. So as not to be discovered, he hid himself amongst the brush far from the footpath, though most people stayed away from this place; its ancient magic worked as a protective repellent to mortal humans. 

“Oh, great and powerful Lord of the Sidhe,” he said in their language, “grant me your presence.”

Nothing happened for a moment, and then a rush of cool wind stirred his beard. The faint hum of beating wings filled the air, and the Sidhe Elder was before him, his once-cruel face softened by time and loss. 

“Ah, Emrys,” said the Elder, “It has been a long time. We with magic shouldn’t be so long apart.” 

Merlin regarded the creature warily; they had a complicated past between them, and he still didn’t completely trust him. 

“King Arthur has returned and I need to know why.” 

The Elder nodded. “Yes, I know. But if you’ve come seeking answers, I’m afraid I have none to give.” 

“But you must have seen something,” Merlin said, his voice a demand. “Tell me.” 

“His body is gone; it disappeared one evening not long after your last visit here. That is all I know.” 

Merlin let out a frustrated sigh; as ever when dealing with the Sidhe, it was impossible to know whether the Elder was telling the truth. “He has forgotten everything but his name. I have to figure out a way to return his memory.” 

The creature’s mouth twisted into a discomfiting smile. “If he’s forgotten, perhaps an enchantment has been cast upon him.” 

“It’s not an enchantment, I’d be able to feel it.” 

“Have you spoken to the Great Dragon?” 

“Kilgharrah’s been dead for over a thousand years,” Merlin said, rolling his eyes. “How in the world would I be able to do that?” 

“Haven’t you ever spoken to one who is dead?” 

Merlin could have kicked himself: the answer was so obvious. “The Crystal Cave,” he said, but the Sidhe Elder had already gone. Though he hadn’t wanted to be away from Arthur so long, it couldn’t be helped. 

Even with the relative convenience of rail travel, it took several more hours for Merlin to reach what had once been known as the Valley of the Fallen Kings. This place, like Avalon, remained untouched by time, protected by ordinance as a National Nature Reserve. The landscape remained wild and natural, with rocky footpaths and dense thickets of beech, and the familiarity of it made his throat tight with happiness and pain. If he closed his eyes he could almost hear Gwaine’s voice the last time he’d seen him. _I hope you find what you are looking for._

He hadn’t been the cave in many years, having grown frustrated with the selective sight of the crystals, the way they’d shown terrible war and famine and death but never what he wanted to see, never Arthur. Yet as he approached the entrance, he could feel the magic in the air, in the very ground beneath his feet. His steps quickened, and he knew without a doubt he’d made the right decision. 

The entry to the cave was dank and mossy, keeping most curious tourists at bay. If one knew where to look, though, the faint glow of crystals was visible through a narrow passage high to the left, over the rock wall Morgana had once intended to trap him behind forever. Merlin scrambled over, not as gracefully as he once might have, and after squeezing through the cleft, arrived in the antechamber where once he’d spoken to his father. In that moment he’d learned of his immortality and gained the power to defeat Morgana’s army. He’d found himself, but in some ways he’d also lost himself, the boy he once was. The boy who was Arthur’s manservant.

All around him, the crystals glowed with promise of the future, but Merlin was afraid to look. Instead, he whispered, “Kilgharrah.” 

As he suspected, nothing happened. He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and bellowed a phrase he hadn’t uttered in eons but had never forgotten. " _O drakon, e mala soi ftengometh tesd'hup anankes! Erkheo!_ " 

“I wondered how long it would take you to pay me a visit, young warlock.” 

Merlin gasped at the voice, opening his eyes. There, not three feet away, Kilgharrah’s form, blue-grey in the cool light of the cave, shone before him. 

“Dragon. It’s . . . good to see you.” His voice was hoarse. 

“And you, though I must confess I’d been expecting your call sooner.” 

“I’m sorry.” Foolish tears prickled at the corners of his eyes. He blinked them away.

“It is no matter, Merlin. I know why you’ve come now. Arthur has returned to you.”

“Yes. But he doesn’t remember . . . he . . . just his name.”

Kilgharrah nodded dismissively. “Ah yes, that is to be expected. His memory, though, will return. It is only a matter of time.”

“How can you be sure?” 

“The truth is not far from him. Already he has begun to dream of Camelot.” 

Merlin hugged his arms across his chest, whispering a warmth spell. What Kilgharrah had told him was comforting—he had suspected Arthur was beginning to remember—yet for some reason he didn’t feel consoled. 

“Is there something else, young warlock?”

“Stop—” Merlin said. “Why are you calling me that? I’m not young. I’m old, ancient. Or are you blind as well as dead?” He immediately regretted the words once they’d left his mouth; they resonated in the cave, an echo of meanness. Yet Kilgharrah chuckled, not appearing fazed. 

“It is good to see you haven’t lost your spirit, young warlock. I see what has really brought you here.” 

“What do you mean? I came because of—” 

“I told you once that Arthur was your other half, and that remains true. You are two sides of the same coin.” 

“But one is young and shiny, and one is dull and bent,” Merlin said. “I can’t spell myself back anymore. It’s too taxing. And Arthur . . . he would never love me like this.” 

“Do you doubt him so much?” 

“ _I_ wouldn’t wish it! I don’t want to be like _this_ anymore. I’ve waited so long and now that everything I’ve ever wanted is within my grasp it’s slipping through my fingers because I am . . . who I am. I don’t want to be immortal. I _hate_ this life.” 

Kilgharrah frowned at him, stirring on his haunches. “You have a great gift, Merlin.” 

“It is a curse. I have lived too long.” 

“You have done many wonderful things.” 

“But I’m tired . . . and I . . . don’t want to live without him again. I don’t want to watch him die and not be able to follow. Can’t you see that?”

“You wish to renounce your destiny?” 

“I wish to live a normal life.” 

“You would give up your magic? For Arthur?” 

At one point in his life, that question would have struck him through with the greatest, most potent fear. Magic was everything to him, his lifeblood, the very essence of his being. To lose that would be to lose himself. And yet, yes, he would give it up if it meant he could have Arthur. 

“I would.” 

“Look into the crystal.” 

Merlin stared, numb, and turned to the closest cluster of opaque rock. He exhaled and watched it come to life. 

He saw himself, young, and in Arthur’s arms. And yes, they were in Merlin’s London flat, laughing about something . . . The scene changed. Now they were on horseback, both older, middle-aged, and Arthur had grey about his temples. Arthur said something and Merlin rolled his eyes; it was a challenge to a race. Their horses sped down the sun-dappled path. 

“This,” Merlin said, the tears he’d held back finally dropping wetly onto his cheeks. “This is what I want.”

“You have earned it,” Kilgharrah said. “Once Arthur remembers, you will have your youth back. You will be mortal, and you will grow old and die with Arthur at your side. This, too, has been foretold.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me?” Merlin asked. Kilgharrah must have found it an impertinent question, as he didn’t answer, the frustrating beast that he was. Merlin was about to demand an answer when he remembered what else the Dragon had said, and something within him panged. “But will I still have magic?”

“That I do not know, Merlin. It may be the earth’s price.” 

He swallowed back the lump in his throat. “Without magic how will I keep Arthur safe?” 

“There is no future in which you don’t reach old age together. See for yourself,” Kilgarrah said, pointing his nose at the crystals lining the cave.

Merlin looked, and his breath caught at what he saw. 

“That’s all I can help you with,” Kilgharrah said. “The rest of this path, you must walk without me.” His figure had already begun to fade, flickering. 

“Wait!” Merlin said, straightening up to his full height. “Please. You once told me that Arthur would return at the time of Albion’s greatest need. I . . . have to know what’s in store for him. If he—”

“Merlin,” Kilgharrah said, lowering his head so their faces were eye level. “Do you not know the truth yet?” 

“What are you—”

“My dear friend, you _are_ Albion.” 

The fading words echoed in the cave as Kilgharrah finally disappeared. 

Merlin gave the crystal one last look, focusing his power on finding Arthur. He was asleep in his bed, peaceful and so beautiful.

“Arthur, I’m coming,” Merlin whispered.


	6. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to sonofsilly for the beta and emmy for the Britpick!
> 
> I don't own, I just play.

Arthur was sitting on the steps in front of their building when Merlin finally arrived back not five hours after speaking with Kilgharrah. He looked tired, the dark circles under his eyes evidence he hadn’t slept restfully, but when he noticed Merlin he straightened up, surprised, as if he hadn’t expected Merlin to return. His hair stuck up at all angles, and he was in his jogging bottoms, a robe tied around his waist. It was hardly six in the morning. His feet were bare.

“Where have you been?” Arthur asked.

“I had to visit an old friend,” Merlin said, smiling to himself as he unlatched the lock. He knew Arthur often sat outside early in the morning, but had never seen him so dishevelled. “What are you doing outside with bare feet? It’s freezing.”

“Oh, I hardly noticed. I like to be outside before all of those cars start driving round,” Arthur said. “It’s peaceful.”

“You don’t like cars?”

Merlin looked over his shoulder to find Arthur wrinkling his nose. “They’re noisy. Horses are much nicer, don’t you think?”

“I suppose. Not as efficient, though.”

The Dragon’s words still resonated in Merlin’s mind; they, combined with what he’d seen in the Cave, had given him so much more than hope. It was extremely tempting to tell Arthur the truth, but Merlin stopped himself. If Arthur didn’t remember on his own, it would never feel real to either of them.

“Do you want to come in to my place for a bit, warm up?” Merlin asked, holding the door open.

Arthur stood and rubbed his arms to circulate the warmth. “Are you sure I’m not imposing?”

Merlin almost laughed. Sometimes it was hard to reconcile this polite, confused Arthur with the prat he’d been. “Not at all. I could do with the company.”

They fell easily into what was now becoming a routine. As the other tenants came to life around them, Arthur sat at his table while Merlin brewed the tea and rustled around for some biscuits.

“So you ride horses, then?” Merlin asked, trying to keep the question neutral.

Arthur frowned. “I think so.”

“Are you remembering more?”

“Not sure. I had a strange dream last night. Actually, the strange part about it was that it wasn’t strange.”

“Oh?” Merlin put the plate of biscuits on the table and passed Arthur his tea.

“I dreamt I had a servant.”

“How . . . interesting.”

“He spoke to me. Said he was coming for . . . I don’t.” Arthur dunked a custard creme and took a bite. “This is stupid. S’just a dream.”

“Sometimes dreams have meaning,” Merlin said. “Trust me, I’m a doctor.”

Arthur cocked his head to the side as he chewed, a familiar gesture. For all that he had grumbled and complained back in the day, he’d always liked the food Merlin prepared. Except maybe the rat stew. Merlin supressed a smile.

“You never told me that,” Arthur said.

“Not much to tell,” Merlin said with a shrug. “But I believe in dreams.” For a beat it was quiet, both of them drinking their tea. Then Merlin asked, “You say you dreamt you had a servant?”

“Yes, he was—” A faint blush coloured Arthur’s cheekbones, and Merlin’s heart thundered.

“What?”

“It’s embarrassing. I’m not saying.”

When Arthur had first married Gwen, there had been days when Merlin’s jealousy was so fierce it had threatened to overwhelm him, though he loved them both. His magic had been out of control; he’d unintentionally lit a fire in his room with just his angry thoughts. But then as days and weeks passed, he realised that nothing had changed. Arthur still needed him, still counted on him, and the looks he gave Merlin when he thought no one was looking were still infused with the same unnamed feelings. It had been enough to live on.

But then, as Arthur lay dying in his arms, Merlin realised it hadn’t been enough, because Arthur had loved him, too. And they’d had no time.

Now Arthur was regarding his mug with huge, wide eyes, lost in some sort of reverie . . . and Merlin had to look away.

“What else did you dream?”

Arthur let out a disbelieving laugh. “I think maybe that book of yours I was reading the other day must have gotten to me. I dreamt I was King Arthur of Camelot, now how ridiculous is that?”

Merlin’s throat had gone completely dry, the biscuit stale in his mouth as his stomach plunged. He swallowed with some difficulty, washing down the chalky crumbs with tea. “I don’t think it’s ridiculous. I sometimes dream of Camelot myself.”

“You do?” Arthur shot him a hopeful look. “Or maybe I really am crazy, like the doctors said.”

“They said you were crazy?”

“They—”Arthur sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, and when he spoke again his voice was muffled. “I couldn’t remember anything. Even the lifts terrified me. I wasn’t—it was like I’d woken up in another century completely. Another world, even. They kept me under observation for weeks, and I’d probably still be there if I hadn’t . . .”

“What?”

“I lied. I pretended. I had to get out of there; it was horrid. So I told them I’d started to remember.”

“Oh Arthur,” Merlin said, the words coming out in far too intimate a tone. He bit his lip, afraid of Arthur’s reaction, but if Arthur noticed, he didn’t say anything. “So how did you . . . wind up here?”

“I found an advert in the newspaper. I’d taken to reading it, you see, to learn. Every day I read and watched telly and listened. I saw an ad for this flat, no deposit.”

“No deposit? Really?” Either Mr. Singh had suddenly gotten very generous indeed, or magic was afoot.

“A nurse at hospital helped me find a job nearby, and here I am. And do you know what’s really odd? Out of all the people I’ve met, no matter how nice they’ve been, it’s you I feel most comfortable talking to. And you’re so very—”

“Old,” Merlin supplied. He tried to keep the hurt out of his voice, but he failed miserably.

“No,” Arthur said quickly. “That’s not what I was going to say. You’re so patient, and you hardly know me. I tell you mad things and you don’t even blink. Why?”

“Excuse me,” Merlin said, standing, feeling suddenly lightheaded. The truth was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back again. “I need to use the loo.”

He stumbled away and shut the door behind him, breathing heavily as he sagged against it. His chest felt tight, and his skin itched as though it were covered by thousands of tiny insect bites. His magic was rushing through his veins like cold fire. He had to sit down . . . he had to . . .

Merlin slumped to his knees with a dull thud, his lips going numb. He felt like he was back in the Crystal Cave, even though he could feel the cold linoleum of his bathroom floor beneath him.

A dream began to overtake his mind, as if he were in fact gazing into an enchanted crystal.

He dreamt of a wide, green field and blue expanse of sky. Arthur was laughing over him, and everything smelled of spring. It was beautiful. He would have stayed there forever, happily, but then someone was calling his name.

Merlin.

_Merlin!_

_Oh Gods._

Merlin struggled to open his eyes; his whole body was in pain. Every muscle, every fibre. He blinked and cursed, trying to sit.

“No, shh, just lie back.” It was Arthur’s voice. Slowly, his concerned face swam into focus.

“Arth—”

“Don’t talk,” Arthur said. For some reason he was smiling and . . . crying. He ran his fingers through Merlin’s hair, the caress soothing his aching scalp. Before he knew it, he was being hoisted into Arthur’s lap as though he were a mere child, and Arthur’s arms enfolded him. His every touch brought comforting warmth. Merlin may have lingered a moment longer than necessary, just to feel the powerful grip encircling him, before he tried to speak.

“What—happened?” he finally managed, feeling drugged by the nearness of Arthur. He couldn’t move a muscle and didn’t want to. No one had touched him in centuries, and here he was, being held by the man he’d pined for, even if this Arthur didn’t know exactly who he was.

“I remembered, Merlin,” Arthur said, eyes shining with tears. “I remember you.”


	7. Someone to Watch Over Me

Merlin must have fallen unconscious again, because when he awoke the second time he was tucked into his bed, the dim light filtering through the curtains from outside suggesting he had slept through the day. He shifted, wincing at his still-sore muscles; it felt as though he’d been run over by a lorry. And then his mind snapped to attention, recalling what had happened, how Arthur had finally—

“You’re awake,” a voice from beside him said. He turned and noticed Arthur, still in his robe, sitting next to the bed in a chair he must have brought in from the kitchen. “How do you feel?”

“Not . . . great,” Merlin admitted, pushing himself up on his elbows. Arthur’s hand was immediately on his forehead; he leaned so close Merlin could smell the coffee on his breath.

“You’re a bit warm.”

Maybe he had a slight fever, or maybe it was the fact Arthur was stroking his hair like he was something beloved. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. “I’ll be okay. How long was I asleep?”

“About ten hours,” Arthur said, then added, “snoring.”

“I do not snore.” Of course the truth was Merlin didn’t know whether he snored or not. Arthur and the knights used to tease, but Gaius had never mentioned anything; no one had kept watch over Merlin’s sleep since the day Arthur had died.

Arthur’s fingers scratched lightly against his scalp, and Merlin held back a sigh of pleasure. “You remembered? Arthur, you—”

“We’ll talk about it later. Just lie back and relax now.” Arthur’s voice had a hint of imperiousness to it; it made Merlin smile. Anyway, his body was so heavy he couldn’t resist the order and slumped back against the pillows. Had Arthur been here this whole time watching him, waiting? The thought made him feel warmer, and despite the fact that every move was painful, the thick blanket wrapped around him called him back to sleep. It would be so easy to give in again, but he willed his eyes open. Arthur was gazing at him, his face unreadable in the half-light.

“What?” Merlin asked. “Is there something wrong?”

Arthur didn’t seem to be embarrassed to have been caught staring. “I’ve never seen anything like it. You’re young again. You’re . . . you.”

In his pain and confusion, it hadn’t even occurred to him to check his body over, to see if Arthur’s memory returning had affected him the way Kilgharrah had told him it would. For the first time since he’d awoken Merlin looked down at his arms, noticed the pale skin and the absence of age spots. He brought his hand to his face and felt its smoothness, no trace of beard or wrinkles. The hair on his head was short and thick and, he imagined, black. He laughed exultantly, sending his silent thanks to the Dragon, wherever he was.

“So I am.”

“How did you do it? Sorcery?”

The mention of the word ended Merlin’s laughter. In the transition he had undoubtedly lost his magic; something was missing deep in his bones. His heart thumped once, a painful beat.

“No, it was you,” Merlin said, shaking off the feeling. He had no reason to mourn, and he didn’t want to tell Arthur what he’d sacrificed—not yet. “You remembered.”

“I think I always knew,” Arthur said, leaning closer again. His eyes travelled over Merlin’s face like a caress. “I just couldn’t see it. Accept it. And all this time you’ve been here. You’ve waited for me. You’ve protected the kingdom?” Arthur’s eyes were dark as the waters of the lake; in them Merlin could see the quiet sleep of a thousand years.

“It’s my destiny,” he said, swallowing back a lump in his throat. He’d done it all for Arthur. “I didn’t ever think I’d see you again.”

“I still don’t understand how . . . how am I alive? Did you bring me back?”

“If I had the power to do that, I would have done it long ago,” Merlin said, a few tears leaking from his eyes, which he quickly wiped away. He’d never liked appearing weak in front of Arthur. “I would have saved you the first time.”

“You couldn’t.”

“No, I couldn’t.” He didn’t like to think of that day, not now, not with Arthur sitting beside him, alive.

“It wasn’t your fault, Merlin.” Arthur’s voice was firm. Somehow, Merlin realised, during the last few moments the hand stroking his hair had left off, travelled to his shoulder to rest. He enjoyed the comforting weight of it even while his brain tried to process those words.

“I should have gone directly after Mordred. I never should have waited to see how you were faring. I could have finished the Saxons off after I’d seen you were safe.”

“You mustn't blame yourself,” Arthur said. “If it weren’t for you, I would have died a hundred times over before I’d even united Albion.”

Unable to come up with a reply, too distracted by the way Arthur had begun rubbing his arm, Merlin nodded.

“So if you didn’t bring me back, who did?”

“I don’t know the answer to that. It . . . I think it was time.” Kilgharrah’s statement that Arthur had returned for Merlin alone felt too raw, too intimate. What if Arthur was disappointed he didn’t have an exciting destiny to fulfil this time around?

“None of the others . . .”

“No.”

A flash of pain crossed Arthur’s face.

“I’m sorry, Arthur.”

The look passed as quickly as it had come. “No. I’m sorry you’ve been alone for so long.”

“Oh, it hasn’t been that bad. At least I haven’t had anyone to boss me around. Do their laundry, polish their armour.”

“You used to love polishing my armour.”

“In your dreams, you prat.” They were smiling at each other; Merlin’s cheeks ached with it. His eyes, however, hadn’t appeared to get the message—they were still watering, though he was too tired and happy to be embarrassed. Then, Arthur surprised him by entwining their fingers together and bringing Merlin’s knuckles to his lips. His mouth was soft, just a brief press, and then he was standing up and insisting Merlin eat something.

“I’ll be right back,” Arthur promised. “Just sleep a little longer.”

Merlin drifted off again, his hand still tingling where Arthur had kissed it.

When he awoke it was to the smell of garlic and tomato and something pleasantly sulphurous; it didn’t take him long to discover what it was. Though the night had grown dark, long-tapered candles lit the flat—there was one flickering on his bedside table, another few on whatever available surfaces Arthur had found.

“I do have electricity, you know,” Merlin called through his smile, his voice croaky with sleep. Arthur peeked his head in from the kitchen.

“I like it like this.”

Merlin couldn’t deny that he did, too.

“What are you cooking?” he asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin. You know I can’t cook for a farthing.”

“So that hasn’t changed.”

Arthur appeared again in the door carrying two plates; he’d changed into a pair of wool trousers and a striped jumper, but his hair was still wild, like he’d been pulling at it. He passed one of the plates to Merlin.

“Pizza.”

“Who invented this?” Arthur asked, taking a huge bite of one of his slices. “It’s delicious.”

“The Italians, I suppose,” Merlin said. He’d never cared for the stuff but he didn’t have the heart to tell Arthur. In any case, his hunger had gotten the better of him—suddenly he was ravenous.

“Incredible.”

Merlin stared as Arthur inhaled his food, licking his fingers when he’d finished.

“Is this what you’ve been surviving on? Besides fish and chips?”

Arthur frowned. “Don’t remind me of that terrible job. You’ve probably been having quite a laugh at my expense.”

Merlin had finished off his slices; he set down his plate, feeling full. “Actually, no. I was too afraid you would never remember me to have a laugh.” It had been hard to see Arthur like that, though it had been just a little amusing, if he was being honest. But only now could he could properly enjoy the hilarity of it. “And anyway, you don’t have to do that anymore. I have plenty of money.” Over the years he’d stored up quite a bit of cash and was now thankful for the foresight.

“I couldn’t ask that of you. I have to earn my own keep.”

“Arthur, you’ve been dead for fifteen hundred years. I think you can afford a bit of a holiday. We’ll figure it out.”

Arthur went to get another helping of pizza. “I don’t suppose they need a King,” he said, sitting down again.

“No. There’s a Queen, and as you probably know by now she has very little power.”

“Yes. I know. Parliament is a good thing. Actually, when you think about it, it’s a bit like the round table.”

Merlin chuckled. With the stalemates he’d seen over the years and all the partisan bickering, sometimes it felt like the ideals of Camelot had been more progressive, though of course Arthur had still wielded absolute power. “Democracy.”

“Wherever did we get that?”

“Gods that’s a long story, and my head aches. But I think we might have had something to do with it.”

That seemed to satisfy Arthur. He nodded and reached out again, feeling Merlin’s forehead with the back of his hand. His touch sent a little shiver through Merlin. “You need some medicine.”

“There are pills in the bathroom.”

“Another wonderful invention,” Arthur said, doling out a couple paracetamol and handing them to Merlin along with a glass of water. “I wish we’d had these in Camelot.”

“Gaius would have been put out of business.” Merlin grew wistful as he remembered his mentor. “I’ve often wondered how it would be with the others here; Leon, Percival, Gwaine. I’ve often thought of the things they would have loved. The things you would like.”

“Oh?” Arthur’s expression fell a little, and Merlin instantly regretted the change of topic. There would be time to talk about the ones they’d lost, but for now it was best to focus on what they’d found.

“By the way, have you seen football?”

“Where they run about after that ball and kick it? Brilliant.” Arthur smiled again, showing his straight white teeth.

“Maybe we’ll go to a match.”

“I’d like that.”

Once Arthur had returned the chair to the kitchen and had shockingly done the washing up, Merlin’s fatigue returned. He stifled a yawn, not wanting Arthur to see lest he decide to leave. Apparently, though, he wasn’t as covert as he’d thought.

“It’s getting late,” Arthur said from the doorway.

“It’s not so late.” He tried to modulate the anxiety in his tone. “You don’t have to go.”

Arthur came into the room and looked down at him, then to the empty space on the other side of the bed.

“You want me to stay.”

“If _you_ want.”

Instead of replying, Arthur merely toed off his trainers. His presence on the bed shifted it, made the springs squeak, and then he was there, solid and warm next to Merlin. They were almost, but not quite, touching. Despite his exhaustion, Merlin’s heart beat as though he’d just run a marathon. His whole body tensed with the desire to cling to Arthur.

It was Arthur who broke the stalemate. “Come here, then,” he said, gathering Merlin into his arms. Arthur’s heart beat a steady, thumping rhythm under Merlin’s ear, and he thought he could stay awake forever, listening to its marvellous cadence. But sleep pulled him under once again as, for the first time in over a thousand years, someone kept watch over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to sonofsilly for the beta and to emmy for the Britpick! As always, I don't own. 
> 
> Just a couple of notes: I'll be taking a few days off from this story to spend the New Year with friends, so expect a short hiatus. Stay tuned, as I'll pick it back up next week; there are still a few more chapters to come!
> 
> Also, thank you for your kind comments and support. I've read and appreciated them all, though I haven't had a moment to respond yet. I'm so glad you're enjoying the story. 
> 
> Have a happy and safe New Year! 
> 
> xo, Mags.


	8. Lost and Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to sonofsilly for the beta and Emmy for the Britpick! 
> 
> I don't own, as usual.

“Do you mean to tell me you’ve lived all these months in London without taking the tube?” Merlin asked Arthur, incredulous. The two of them stood on the busy platform of London Bridge underground laden with bags of goods from Borough Market, and Arthur was regarding the trains with a mixture of admiration and mistrust. 

He turned to Merlin and shrugged. “I just prefer walking.” 

Merlin sighed. “I know.” In fact, they’d walked almost two miles to the market that morning; if Arthur had his way they’d be struggling home with bags on foot as well, but Merlin had insisted. Even though he’d largely recovered from the physical toll the transformation of his body had wrought, he still found major physical exertion a tad exhausting—and unnecessary—especially when they had modern conveniences like the underground at hand. “Are you sure you’re not afraid?” he teased. 

Arthur was biting the inside of his cheek, the gesture giving away his anxiety despite his assertive stance. It almost made Merlin laugh, the way that Arthur had embraced some aspects of this new life and eschewed others. Trains, he had learned, definitely fell into the latter category.

“I’m not _afraid, Mer_ lin.” 

“It’s perfectly safe.” 

“I know that. Obviously.” 

“Well, do you think we can get on the next train, then? My back is killing me.” They’d already watched at least three come and go. 

At that statement Arthur turned to him with a worried frown. “Are you okay?”

“Fine, fine,” Merlin said, torn between regret at his words and slight irritation. Arthur had been coddling him all week, and while part of him revelled in the attention, another part—the part that had been independent and alone for so long—didn’t know how to deal with it. No matter what Arthur believed, he wasn’t helpless. Though, come to think of it, Arthur had always treated Merlin like a bit of a dolt, even as he was busy saving Arthur’s life time and again. He was beginning to suspect Arthur had found his feigned ineptitude endearing. “I’ll be more fine once I’m not lugging this giant bag of apples about.” 

“Let me take it,” Arthur offered. 

“No. Let’s just get on the train, Arthur. Unless you _are_ frightened.” 

Another train was pulling into the station, bringing with it the sounds of screeching metal. People milled about getting ready to board.

“I slayed a dragon protecting Camelot,” Arthur said, loud enough for anyone passing by to hear. “I think I can manage this, this demonic contraption you call a train.”

“Erm,” Merlin said, “about that.”

“Oh Gods,” Arthur said as Merlin shoved him forward towards the opened doors. “You did that too, didn’t you? Did I ever do anything myself?” It had been a long week of reminiscences and revelations; while Merlin had been reticent at first to confess all he’d done for Camelot and Arthur over the years, Arthur had wanted to hear, making Merlin promise always to tell him the truth from now on. He was still a little bit stung by the magnitude of Merlin’s lie, events of the past being so much fresher in Arthur’s mind, even as he understood why Merlin had found it necessary to protect him at the time. With memories still so raw, Arthur appeared determined never to let a wall of secrecy come between them ever again. Still, Merlin had been reluctant to speak of the incident with the dragon. Arthur had always been so proud of that.

“You did more than you know,” Merlin said, squeezing behind Arthur as the carriage filled with commuters. “You saved my life more than once, too.” He whispered the words into Arthur’s ear, his front flush against Arthur’s back. Pressed up against him like this it was nearly impossible to think, but somehow he managed, “Remember the Mortaeus flower? I would have died without it.” 

Arthur stiffened in front of him, and then managed somehow to turn so they were chest to chest. 

“You drank from Anhora’s goblet to spare me, even though you thought it meant your death,” Merlin continued. “You fought for Ealdor. You stood up for me to Uther even though I was only your servant.” 

A woman to the left of them gave Merlin a funny look, but he ignored her. He could focus only on the fact that Arthur’s mouth was merely inches from his, the gentle lurching of the train rocking their bodies together. 

“You were never only my servant,” Arthur said, and then Merlin felt a gentle pressure on his wrist, the slide of Arthur’s fingers over his pulse. It wasn’t because of the tight quarters that Merlin lost his breath; Arthur’s eyes were bright and focused on his lips. 

“You accepted me . . . at the end. When I told you. I’d always thought you would hate me because of what I am, but you didn’t.” 

“Of course not. Who you are . . .” 

The train braked quickly as it approached the next station, sending Merlin careening into Arthur with a jolt. A hand around his waist steadied him as people pressed by to get off, and Merlin realised, somewhat giddily, that it didn’t move once they were again on their way. In fact, he was only pulled closer into a tight clasp, Arthur’s cheek resting against his. No one seemed to pay them any mind, or even notice—the carriage was so crowded. The cumbersome bags on his shoulders seemed weightless. 

“Will we always be haunted by the past?” Arthur asked, his breath puffing hot against Merlin’s ear. 

“I don’t know,” Merlin replied. He couldn’t stop himself from wondering what Arthur was thinking of, if he was missing Gwen. They hadn’t talked of her except in passing; Merlin had a feeling it was too difficult, especially with this unspoken thing between them. So many times during the past week he had thought Arthur might kiss him on the mouth, but as of yet neither of them had attempted it, though they slept together in Merlin’s bed every night. Arthur was always touching him, a squeeze to his shoulder when he sat reading a book, a firm hand at the base of his spine guiding him through doors when they went out. But in bed they lay in a close embrace, and nothing more. In the old days, if they should happen to lie near each other during a week of hunting, Merlin always made sure to excuse himself at dawn to allow Arthur his own time, thus avoiding awkwardness. Now when they woke, he was aware of Arthur’s arousal from the thick bulge under the covers and the sleepy shifts of his hips, and yet Arthur made no move to touch him intimately, though Merlin’s own aching response to Arthur’s nearness must have been as visible. Just this morning he had awoken to find Arthur wrapped around him breathing softly, his desire evident in the hardness pressing against Merlin’s hip, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to act if Arthur wouldn’t. 

While the visions he’d seen in the Cave showed them as a couple, he had no idea how or when the transition would take place, and he cursed himself for his own inexperience. He couldn’t believe Arthur was oblivious to the way his touch affected him. There was no mistaking the quick thump of his heart against his ribs; even through the layers of cotton and wool they wore, Arthur must be able to feel it. Perhaps it was foolish to hope that the knowledge Arthur had gained as a married man would translate to his relationship with Merlin now— the fact Arthur made no move only confirmed his fear that Arthur sought closeness out of the need for comfort of a platonic sort, rather than any romantic interest. Yet even with those traitorous thoughts occupying his mind he could do nothing to prevent the blood pooling to his groin as the rhythm of the train shifted Arthur against him, his thigh pressing just so. Luckily they slowed again for their stop, allowing Merlin to preserve his dignity as they disentangled from each other and made their way towards the doors. 

Back upstairs in Arthur’s flat, he was hyper-aware of every one of Arthur’s movements, his body a compass and Arthur due north. Something appeared to be weighing on Arthur’s mind as well; he sighed once in a while with a faraway look in his eyes that Merlin didn’t want to discover the reason behind. 

Once they’d finished unpacking their shopping and gotten together a snack of cheese, bread, and Arthur’s newfound favourite cider (which Merlin suspected reminded him of home), they retreated to the settee to rest. Arthur turned on the telly, but neither of them seemed interested in watching. 

“Why don’t you use your magic?” Arthur finally asked him.

“What?” The question caught him so off-guard, he nearly dropped the cheese he’d been about to pop into his mouth. 

Arthur set down the beer he’d been holding and turned to him, moving closer. “Are you afraid it bothers me? I’ve already told you, Merlin, I want you to always be you. No need to hide it now.”

Merlin’s heart had begun hammering again, yet this time it had little to do with Arthur’s proximity. After that initial joy at being young again, having the potential of a life with Arthur stretched before him—he’d begun to feel the loss of his magic keenly. It ached, but it was a dull ache, nowhere near as sharp as the loss of Arthur had been. It was an ache he could live with. Still, his palms went clammy.

“Tell me the truth.” 

“I can’t—”

“You _can_ ,” Arthur interrupted him. “You can tell me anything. I promise.”

“No, no. I can’t use my magic,” Merlin tried to explain. “I think I lost it.” He felt a bit silly hedging his answer, but he had no idea how Arthur would react. 

Arthur’s face paled. “Lost it?”

“After . . . you remembered. When I woke up, I didn’t have it anymore. I think it was the price I had to pay to be young again. Mortal.” He couldn’t look at Arthur; suddenly, the fluff on his trousers became particularly interesting. 

“You _think_ or you _know_?” Arthur’s voice was deadly.

“I know,” Merlin admitted. It would come out anyway; better to have it done with.

“Gods, Merlin. What have I done?”

When he looked up again, Arthur’s expression had morphed into something resembling agony. His hands balled up into fists. 

“No. You didn’t do anything. This is what I wanted. All I wanted.”

“How can this be what you want? Magic is . . . it’s everything to you. It’s who you are. And I’ve taken it away.”

Merlin grit his teeth and looked Arthur in the eye, courage welling in his chest. “You listen to me, you prat, I refuse to allow you to feel sorry for me or to blame yourself. I’ve lived for longer than anyone has a right to, waiting for you to return, doubting you ever would. Do you think I would really have eternity alone over a life with you? If I could choose, I’d do it again in a second. You want me to be me? Well, this _is_ me. This is the choice I have made.” 

He’d said more than he’d meant to, and Arthur’s eyes had doubled in size. Doubt returned and, with it, pain. The loss of his magic _would_ be worth it if Arthur wanted him, but if he didn’t . . . 

Merlin rubbed his hands over his face and hunched over, elbows resting on his thighs. He resisted the urge to cry even as the silence in the room dragged on and became unbearable. “Listen, it’s okay if you don’t want me. I understand.” He would still have Arthur’s friendship, as he always had. That would have to be enough.

“Merlin—” Arthur said fondly, shifting next to him. The next moment he felt the familiar-strange weight of an arm drawing him closer. “Of all the idiots in the world, past and present, you are undoubtedly the most obtuse.” 

“Oh, thanks.” Still, he allowed himself to be manhandled against Arthur’s chest. The soft cotton of the T-shirt against his cheek was warm, and despite his continued embarrassment and rising panic, Merlin hugged back, wrapping his arms around Arthur and feeling his girth. Lips pressed against his forehead, lingering there and sending a tremor through him. 

“I’m not good . . . at saying what’s in my heart. You know that.” The words were spoken gruffly, and when Merlin chanced a glimpse at Arthur’s face, he noted a faint blush colouring his cheeks. “But believe me when I say that you are, and have always been. No matter who you are. No matter if you’re a sorcerer or no. I just want you to be happy.”

“I’m—not the same person I was,” Merlin said, his voice cracking.

“Neither am I.” 

Merlin’s pulse quickened, joy firing his blood and making it race. He held his breath as Arthur’s hands cradled the back of his head, drawing their mouths together. The first joining of lips was soft, tentative, and then Arthur deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue along the seam of Merlin’s lips for entry. He was cautious, as if Merlin were an untried boy—which he was, he supposed, since it had been over fifteen hundred years since he’d so much as kissed another person. His body reacted immediately, long-dormant need stoked to burning as Arthur’s tongue slipped into his mouth and stroked against his, gently. They kissed for long, sweet minutes, sharing each other’s breath and mapping each other’s mouths with questing tongues until Merlin thought he would burst from it.

“I’ve wanted to do that forever,” Arthur said, his voice strained when he pulled back. “You have no idea.” His thumb came to rest upon Merlin’s cheekbone, the rest of his fingers tickling the sensitive skin of Merlin’s lower lip. Merlin nipped at Arthur, playfully. 

“Oh, I think I do.”


	9. You After All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Sonofsilly for the beta and to Emmy for the Britpick! 
> 
> I own nothing. *sob* Because if I did I'd film the following scene and show it on HBO after hours.

Though Merlin’s sexual experiences were limited, he wasn’t a virgin. First there had been the awkward fumbling of teenaged boys in Ealdor as he and Will discovered their adolescent attraction, and later, at Camelot, Freya—though nothing beyond kissing had happened with her, since she’d died soon after they met. He hadn’t time for romance, or so he’d told himself, refusing to acknowledge that by that time no one but Arthur would do. So there had been years of nothing but longing until the tragedy that transformed their lives when, unexpectedly, he had found comfort for a short while in Percival’s arms. Their coupling had been born of grief for what had been lost, both of them making love to ghosts, and—like all such liaisons—it hadn’t endured. That, however, was a story for another time.

Now, after eons of self-imposed celibacy, it was almost too much to take Arthur’s body stretched above him, pressing him down into the cushions of the worn settee. They had been like this since that first kiss, minutes or hours before: Merlin’s hands grasping along planes of lean muscle while the rough stubble of Arthur’s jaw rasped against his cheek, lips, neck. Their mouths clashed, open and messy, and yet they were both still unaccountably clothed, their erections meeting through harsh layers of material. Each grind of Arthur’s hips sent a current up Merlin’s spine and down to his toes. He could hardly believe or comprehend what was happening, that finally Arthur was his; his arousal was for Merlin alone, along with his breathy grunts and half-spoken declarations that Merlin had forever hoped to hear. 

He was on the verge of coming but held off by sheer will, his cock throbbing a pleasant ache in his trousers. Arthur ran a hand down Merlin’s side and finally underneath to touch skin, the ticklish space under his ribs and higher, using his thumb to rub an already hardened nipple. The sensation set off a series of tiny electrical currents all over Merlin’s body, making his breath hitch for how close he was. He gasped.

“Is this all right?” Arthur asked through kisses getting slower now, more languorous.

Merlin arched up to get more of Arthur’s mouth. “Of course. More. Would be better.” 

“Always so demanding.” But there was a tease in Arthur’s eyes, the pupils blown. His mouth was swollen and more delectable than ever, and he pinched Merlin’s nipple gently between his thumb and forefinger. 

“You . . . git.” Merlin pushed up with his hips, and now it was Arthur’s turn to hiss. His gaze dropped to where his hand was unveiling the expanse of Merlin’s chest, and then he dipped his head and his tongue took over where his fingers had left off. Merlin couldn’t help threading his fingers through Arthur’s hair, groaning in encouragement as his arousal nearly peaked again, as much from the way Arthur’s hips slowly hitched against his thigh as from the wet suction on his nipple. Somewhere in the back of his mind it occurred to him that Arthur was making love to him like he was a woman, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. It felt too good. 

But then, for some reason, the kisses stalled and Merlin whined, frustrated. Arthur’s face had grown serious, level again with his. “What’s wrong?” Merlin asked.

“I want . . .”

“Yes, tell me.” 

“I want to . . . take you.” 

“Take me?” Merlin nearly giggled, but Arthur’s expression was so sincere. “I want that, too.”

“But I’ve never—” 

Merlin apprehended with a jolt that he had been very foolish indeed to think that Arthur was more experienced in certain matters of sex than he was. It was apparent he’d never lain with a man before, and while Merlin could count the number of times he had on one hand, he still had more knowledge than Arthur. All of his fears of the previous days about Arthur’s reticence vanished, supplanted by the realisation he would have to take the lead. Smiling, he pushed against Arthur’s chest and slid out from underneath him, then held out his hand. 

“My flat. Let’s go.”

They didn’t waste any time adjusting themselves and hurrying down the flight of stairs, narrowly avoiding a conversation with Marissa as she turned the latch to let herself in. She shot them a look of surprise as they shut themselves into Merlin’s flat, locking the door behind them. He supposed it must seem odd for him to be living here with no sign of his older self; he’d have to think up an excuse soon. But now, there were more important matters to attend.

Still holding hands, they made their way to the bed. Arthur allowed Merlin to push him down, eyes wide as he lay against a pillow. His erection was still large and visible, pushing against the seam of his jeans, and Merlin couldn’t resist giving it a squeeze—and revelling in the grunt it caused—before turning to the bedside table and retrieving the bottle of lube he’d purchased earlier that week on a hopeful lark. He handed it to Arthur, who examined it with curiosity, and then, without further ado, Merlin unbuttoned his trousers and let them fall to the floor, his pants and shirt following soon after. There was a moment of painful awkwardness as he stood fully naked next to the bed, unable to meet Arthur’s eyes as he regarded his own jutting erection, the trail of hair that led to his navel, and his pale skin. It was still a shock to see young flesh instead of old, and while it was a marked improvement, he’d always felt himself gangly, too skinny. His cock was wet at the tip from being so long aroused, the head a deep red and the foreskin retracted. He bit his bottom lip for long seconds until Arthur murmured his name. 

“Come here,” Arthur said, already down to his pants and struggling to divest himself of those. “You’re driving me mad.” His cock slapped against his belly, its continued hardness all the assurance Merlin needed that Arthur liked what he saw. 

Merlin smiled, drinking in the sight as Arthur kneeled before him. Arthur had always had a beautiful body: broad and strong without being overly muscular, with powerful thighs and a shapely arse. It had given Merlin much pleasure and agony throughout the years, always being able to look (surreptitiously) and never touch, except when he bathed or dressed Arthur; oh, but that was its own form of delicious torment. Now, though, he could touch, and touch he did, reaching out to trace the flat plane of Arthur’s stomach, then below his navel to grasp his thick cock. It flexed in his palm, sending a sympathetic tremor of lust through him. Before he could even think what to do next, Arthur was drawing him down onto the bed and covering him again with that long-coveted body and then moving lower, shocking Merlin by pressing his lips to Merlin’s erection, giving it open-mouthed kisses along the shaft. Arthur groaned and traced the length with his tongue, Merlin watching all the while with barely concealed surprise. While the knights had once used to talk and jest of such things around campfires at night, Arthur never joined in; Merlin had attributed it to Arthur’s need to maintain decorum in front of his men, but perhaps his reticence had more to do with undisclosed desire than Merlin had previously suspected. He certainly seemed enthusiastic now. 

“Oh fuck,” he said when Arthur gave the tip a tentative swipe. His hips hitched automatically, seeking, and Arthur took the head into his warm mouth. 

“You have no idea . . . how much I want you . . .” Arthur alternated between kissing the sensitive skin of his abdomen and mouthing and sucking at his cock; it was all so messy and eager Merlin couldn’t handle it. He cried out a garbled warning and began to spurt his release as Arthur stroked him through it, the come going everywhere—Gods!—on Arthur’s face, his lips and cheeks. Instead of looking disgusted, however, Arthur beamed.

“Where did you . . .” Merlin asked, dazed as Arthur wiped himself off with the sheet. If he had doubted that Arthur saw him as a man earlier, those worries had been put to rest.

“The telly. I saw two men take each other into their mouths. I wanted to do it to you.”

“You watched porn?” 

Arthur smiled, then flopped down beside him, his bulk making the bed shake. “I’ve had to educate myself, Merlin. Acquaint myself with the times, remember?” There was a devilish glint in his eye. “Did you like it?” 

“You are the most wonderful and ridiculous person. Of course I did.” 

“I liked it,” Arthur whispered the words like they were a confession, close to Merlin’s ear. He shivered, the reminder of Arthur’s continued arousal pressing against his rump. It made him arch back, going gladly into Arthur’s arms as he was spooned from behind. 

They kissed again, and even in his post-orgasmic lethargy Merlin felt his interest renewed with every caress of Arthur’s tongue. He reached for the plastic bottle lost somewhere in the bedclothes and, finding it, uncapped it. 

“Put this on your fingers,” Merlin said, blushing. “To open me.”

Arthur didn’t speak, but did so obediently, his expression so intent it reminded Merlin of the times they’d pored over maps late into the night, plotting strategy. Only this time it was Merlin’s body Arthur was exploring with eager, inquisitive hands. One slick finger gently prodded at Merlin’s hole, and Merlin inhaled sharply as it slipped inside. Behind him, Arthur tensed. 

“Am I hurting you?”

“No. Just a little stretch.” There had been many days in his youth when Merlin had opened himself with his own fingers, imagining it was Arthur. Now that this was really happening, his emotions threatened to overwhelm him. He blinked back tears, not wanting Arthur to misunderstand. “Add another,” he said hoarsely.

Arthur pushed a second finger inside, adding more lube to ease the way, his lips gently moving over Merlin’s neck. He gained a slow rhythm, and soon Merlin found himself grinding back in encouragement, his own cock hard and resting on his thigh. Arthur’s free arm was wrapped around him, holding him close, and it was hard to remember a time when he’d felt safer—or more exposed. 

“I’ve got to—” Arthur said, his voice urgent.

“Go on.”

The blunt head of Arthur’s cock replaced his fingers and began its inexorable press inside. Merlin winced, breathing out to relax as his flesh gave way and Arthur filled him completely. 

Arthur shuddered, his other arm wrapping around Merlin once he was fully sheathed. “It’s . . . By the Gods, you’re so . . . ngh.” The rest of the words were lost in the press of Arthur’s mouth to Merlin’s skin. For his part, Merlin was beyond articulation. Arthur consumed his senses; it was just Arthur all around him, inside of him, finally, finally. He cried out at the first withdrawal and plunge as Arthur began to fuck him with long, determined strokes. 

He had forgotten about his own arousal, dulled by his first release, but now it returned with urgency as Arthur’s cock filled him again and again, prodding against the spot inside that always undid him. But more than that, it was Arthur, the electricity of their bodies and long-denied need, unravelling him in the heat and force of their coupling. His mind swam with images of past and present, of all the moments he had wanted this and the long, lonely years of waiting in-between. Pain and pleasure mingled, at last made tears fall, the words _beautiful_ and _mine_ ringing in his ears until he couldn’t tell which of them was speaking. 

When he finally gave in and touched himself, Arthur’s breath became harsh as he watched over Merlin’s shoulder. 

“Oh fuck. Look at you, Merlin. I’m so sorry. I can’t—” 

He could feel Arthur’s rhythm faltering, his hips snapping, and then the last, desperate push as he spent himself deep within Merlin’s body with a groan. Merlin wrapped his arm around Arthur’s neck and held him close as his second orgasm washed over him. 

“I’ve hurt you,” Arthur muttered, aghast, tracing one of the tears on Merlin’s cheek. 

“No, no. You silly prat, these are happy tears. It’s just . . .” He couldn’t put it into words, and so fell silent, hoping Arthur would understand. 

A kiss to his forehead indicated he did. “I confess I wanted that to last a bit longer,” Arthur said, sounding equally abashed and relieved. 

“There’s plenty of time.” And in the interval, Merlin was happy to be resting against Arthur’s chest, his cock still snugly encased and pulsing. 

“I’ve never . . . How can it feel so good. Merlin?” 

A pleasant heat spread through Merlin’s limbs at those words and their implication. “I don’t know,” he said simply. “Maybe because it’s us.” 

The day was fading from the windows, and the familiar sounds of their street filtered in, a gentle reminder there was a world beyond. A world Merlin would live in with Arthur. He considered this, and the fact that they had decisions to make—would they stay here in London or move away? Would Arthur want to travel or work? What would _he_ do without his magic, without a way to protect Arthur from harm? And would he ever get used to this feeling of contentment, this pure happiness—even sweeter because it had been bestowed after sacrifice? He never wanted to take it for granted. 

For a while, he thought Arthur must have fallen asleep, the breath at his back growing quiet and even, but then the arms around him tightened again. 

“What are you thinking about?”

“Just about what happens next. What we’ll do.” 

“Deep thoughts, then. Don’t hurt yourself, Merlin.” 

“Ha, you arse. I was also thinking that—despite your snarky comments—I’m happy.” 

“You should be. You’re stuck with me now.” Arthur was teasing, but his voice was fond.

Merlin couldn’t help the way his throat tightened. “I better be.”

“You want to know what I was thinking?”

“That depends. If it involves getting me to do your laundry or clean your flat, you can forget it.” 

“Ha. No.” Sometime during the exchange Arthur’s cock had slipped out, and Merlin just now felt the loss. He turned in Arthur’s arms to face him, giving in to the urge to kiss Arthur’s lips again. They were soft, a bit swollen from overuse. 

“When I was dying,” Arthur continued, “all I could think about was you. The time we’d wasted. The time we’d never get back.” 

“Shh, don’t think about that now,” Merlin said, kissing Arthur’s brow. 

“I can’t help it. Do you know how much I loved you . . . you tried to save me, and I knew, I knew the whole time it wasn’t going to work. But you never gave up. You were so brave.” 

“Arthur—”

“I didn’t want you to be alone all this time. I didn’t want you to mourn me.”

“Well.” Merlin shrugged, helpless. He had tried, he really had, to move on, but nothing had worked. His heart had always been in Avalon no matter where he’d travelled.

“What I’m trying to say is . . . I’m glad you never gave up, Merlin. I think maybe that’s what brought me back. It was you after all.” 

Arthur’s eyes were shining, his hand splayed out across Merlin’s cheek. Merlin kissed his palm. “Maybe it was.”

They must have dozed for a while. Merlin never completely lost consciousness, though; he was always aware of Arthur next to him, his body still restless from the need to touch. It was night when Arthur woke again, stirring and pressing against Merlin. This time when they joined, Merlin was already open and slick with Arthur’s seed, and Arthur pushed into him as they lay chest to chest, his hand stroking Merlin to firmness and then teasing him until he begged Arthur to fuck him harder. The slow pumps of Arthur’s hips became quick, urgent, and soon a bone-deep orgasm shattered over him, his come splashing warm between them. Merlin shuddered as he came, wrapping his legs around Arthur and drawing him in, welcoming his release as if they had always been lovers and always would be.


	10. Onward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to Sonofsilly for the beta and to Emmy for the Britpick! I really couldn't have gotten this story out so quickly without their excellent help and advice. Muah!
> 
> As always, I don't own.
> 
> This is the final body chapter; there will be a short epilogue to follow.

“Percival?” Arthur asked, his countenance taking on the appearance of a large-mouthed fish. “You can’t be serious. But he’s so . . . big.”

Fighting away his rising blush, Merlin took a careful sip of his pint, then set it down on the bar mat and looked at Arthur across the small table. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist; we mostly just talked about you and Gwaine, anyway.”

“When you weren’t shagging.” Arthur scowled.

“Right.” Merlin sighed, running his fingers through his hair. All around them, the crowded Friday afternoon pub radiated the life and warmth of people happy to be off for the weekend. It had been a mistake to answer Arthur’s curiosity here when they’d been having such a good time.

“And what has Gwaine got to do with it?” 

“What has Gwaine got to—Arthur, you really are the most clueless idiot. Didn’t you know about Percy and Gwaine?” 

Arthur’s scowl morphed into a pout. “No one ever told me anything.”

“It was fifteen hundred years ago,” he said, though of course for Arthur that time felt much more recent. “I really don’t think you have any cause to be jealous. You were dead, Arthur. And anyway, it’s not like you were a _virgin_. You married Gwen.” He remembered all too well, in fact, and shuddered. 

“Yes, but I—we didn’t—”

“Don’t even try to tell me you didn’t have sex with her.” In spite of his own insistence there was no reason to be upset over the past, an old, familiar coil of envy rose in his chest. Merlin had walked so long alone, tamping down emotions that had seemed trivial in the great scheme of things, yet here his jealousy was, making him feel alive. 

Arthur’s face softened, and he slid his hand across the table to take Merlin’s. “Did you never wonder why there was no heir? I didn’t ever feel . . . _compatible_ with her in that way, I guess is the word. It wasn’t like it is with you. And you’re right; I’m being ridiculous. _We’re_ being ridiculous.” His fingers twined with Merlin’s, and the lonely feeling began to dissipate, a new one taking its place. In the glorious month since their first intimate night together, he had felt more grateful to be alive than he had been in his countless immortal years. He had no doubt now that Arthur loved him, and always had. Well, not always—but almost as long as Merlin had loved him. In any case, he smiled, remembering the first moment he’d seen something more in Arthur, how vibrant the memory still was, and how relieved he’d been that his destiny was not entwined with that of a complete and utter prat.

“What are you grinning about?” Arthur asked, his thumb tracing a circle on Merlin’s palm. 

“Oh, nothing.” 

“Tell me.” 

Merlin rolled his eyes, taking another sip of his pint with his free hand. The bitter beer foamed against his upper lip, and he licked it off, unable to hold back a smirk as Arthur watched. 

“I was just recalling the first day I realised you weren’t a total arse.” 

This seemed to placate Arthur. He grinned, pulling Merlin’s hand closer. Under the table, their legs fit together like puzzle pieces, and Merlin supposed that to anyone looking on they appeared nothing more than an ordinary, soppy couple on the lash. 

“Go on.” 

“It was the week of the tournament, with Valiant.” 

“Such a long time ago,” Arthur said with a smile. Always chivalrous, he leaned down and kissed Merlin’s hand. “So what made you realise I wasn’t, as you put it, ‘a total arse’?”

“You looked extremely handsome in your full armour, I admit that had something to do with it. And you fought well. I found myself cheering and thinking it wasn’t so bad to be your servant, after all. And I certainly didn’t want you to be hurt.” His chest ached, as it always did, whenever he remembered an instance Arthur’s life had been at risk. How close he’d come to losing him so many times, and then finally had, and yet here Arthur was, alive and well and sitting across from him at a dodgy pub at the dawn of the twenty first century. The invisible wound that had formed when Arthur was struck with Mordred’s blade, the one Merlin had never thought would knit, had begun to heal.

“You haven’t mentioned my stunning intellectual prowess yet.” Arthur’s blond hair flopped across his forehead as he shook his head. It had been a while since his last haircut; he mistrusted barbers and (Merlin suspected) secretly thought they would attempt to perform surgery or pull out his teeth in the medieval fashion. 

“Ha. Well, actually I haven’t noticed any intellect yet. I’ll let you know.” 

“Already moved from praise to insults? You’re horrible at this, Merlin.” 

“I’m not finished. Anyway, no, it wasn’t any of that, though. It was how you believed me, when I told you about the snakes in the shield coming alive. Even though I was just a servant, you took my word. That’s when I knew.” 

“But I sacked you.” 

“You hired me back.” 

“You loved me,” Arthur teased. 

Merlin feigned a grimace. “Something like that. Okay, you go.”

“What? Me?”

“We’re trading stories; it’s your turn. Make me feel good about myself.” He waited for a joke or an insult, or for Arthur to resist and deflect the conversation to another topic, but instead he was met with a serious, blue-eyed, _sentimental,_ stare.

“I knew the first day that you were something special, Merlin.” 

Merlin’s prepared rejoinder lodged in his throat. His eyes went misty in spite of himself, and suddenly he resented the crowded pub, wanting nothing more than to crawl onto Arthur’s lap and kiss him until they were both breathless. He tugged Arthur’s hand. “Let’s go home.”

***

They stumbled back to their building in the dusk clutching each other’s arms, stopping to kiss against buildings and nearly careening into passers by, receiving a few insults and a few catcalls along the way. Merlin’s fuzzy head indicated he’d had one too many pints, but luckily Arthur was sober enough to get them home and locate the key to Merlin’s flat, which Arthur had for all intents and purposes moved into the previous week. It was far too small; they’d have to get a new place soon, but neither of them seemed particularly eager to move. This had been the place where they’d found each other again, and in any case, they didn’t need much space. They rarely left the bedroom these days.

That was where Merlin found himself later, his pants and trousers being unceremoniously yanked down by Arthur, who then pushed him down on the bed and inhaled his cock, his mouth perfect and obscene stretched over the tip, getting it good and wet. Merlin moaned and threw a helpless arm over his face, focusing on the suction and pull and the marvellous heat of Arthur’s mouth. It only took minutes before he was ready to come, but he gathered strength and tugged Arthur up, making it known with silent gesture what he wanted. Arthur’s erection was thick and rigid under his jeans; Merlin made quick work of them, taking his prize into his hand and stroking it firmly. It was lovely, the skin soft and pink, and Merlin licked a stripe up the underside of the shaft, swirling his tongue around the tip and tasting the salty bitterness of Arthur. A gratifying moan told him to continue, and so he did, stomach tightening with desire as Arthur spun him around to resume his previous attentions. They lay together between each other’s legs as the pleasure wove a curtain around them, both lost to anything but the harmony of lips and the soft pressure of knowing tongues, the warm movement of skin on skin.

Arthur was the first to spend, and Merlin held him close as he shuddered, hips hitching as he flooded Merlin’s mouth with his release. Only a few seconds later, Merlin’s orgasm sent a scorching white heat up his spine, blinding him and making him cry out something inarticulate. Like the magic he’d given up for this gift of a life with Arthur, it surged from deep within him; it was part of him, elemental, and most wondrously, it was more than the lonely burden of magic—it was a shared force, drawn from both of their essences. 

When they’d both caught their breath and found their way to a more comfortable position propped against pillows, Arthur laughed a hearty, deep, sincere laugh. And, Merlin realised, he had no idea what the joke was.

“What’s so funny?”

“Do you know what you just called me?”

Merlin wracked his brain, but came up with nothing. “Dollophead?” he asked hopefully, mortification setting in.

“Nope.”

“Clotpole.”

“Wrong again, _Mer_ lin.” 

The tone of Arthur’s voice made Merlin’s face heat. “Oh Gods. What?”

“ _Sire_. You called me sire.”

“No I didn’t,” Merlin said, but somehow he knew it was the truth. He buried his head under his arm. “Ugh, I did.” 

“Don’t be embarrassed. I liked it.” Arthur spooned behind him and kissed his ear. His chest hair rasped pleasantly against Merlin’s back. 

“I’ll bet you did.” He would have been very happy never to speak of it again, but Arthur persevered. 

“I used to imagine it, you calling me that while I was having you. I imagined what it would be like to be inside you, for you to be mine.” 

Heat pooled low in Merlin’s belly at the words. He lifted his gaze and met a stare that was dark with lust and something else, something faraway and sad that Merlin thought he might understand. “Do you miss it, being the king? That other life?”

Arthur sighed, and he urged Merlin over, dropping his head onto Merlin’s chest. “Sometimes. But it’s not the position I miss, or the power, it’s the moment of innocence before everyone went wrong.” His voice became a whisper. “I don’t miss the fighting and the betrayal and, well, the dying. But sometimes I wish I could see Camelot once again, as it was. I miss the stairway that went to my chambers, how you used to barge in without knocking. I miss that neckerchief you used to wear and the way you looked astride a horse. But I know we can’t go back.” 

As Arthur spoke, Merlin ran his fingers through too-long strands of soft hair. “No, we can’t.” 

“Do _you_ miss it?” Arthur propped himself up and looked Merlin in the eye.

“I miss my magic,” he confessed. “And I miss the people. And you. I spent so many years missing you.” His heart gave a little pang. “But I don’t miss lying or wondering when the prophecy would come true. I don’t miss being so alone. I think . . . no, I know, I like this better.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, pressing a kiss to his chest, just below where the Sigil rested at the hollow of his collarbone.

“I know. And I’m sorry you lost your home.” 

“I haven’t.” Arthur’s arms tightened around him, and Merlin knew exactly what he meant.


	11. Epilogue: The Once and Future Carpenter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks one last time to Sonofsilly for betaing this fic, and to Em for her Britpick. Both of you were super-fast and helpful, and I really appreciate your time and effort. I'd also like to thank Mumford and Sons for providing me with a title for the fic and the Avett Brothers for the title to the epilogue. I may have squeed a little for how well it worked. <3
> 
> As always, I don't own.

It wasn’t much to look at, just a small cottage on a quiet, hedge-rowed lane in the middle of sheep country, but Merlin thought it might be the best place he’d ever lived. 

In the year since Arthur had come back to him, they’d both decided the hustle of London wasn’t for them, at least not now, and so they’d bought this little house close to where, if one looked carefully enough, one might see the mound of earth that covered the rocky foundations of what had once been a castle. For everyone else but Merlin and Arthur it was just a hill; flowers bloomed there and sheep grazed, and sometimes children flew kites in summer when the wind was right. No one paid any mind to the besotted couple growing older by increments in their midst. But if one happened to walk by on a spring evening when the cool air turned the rain to mist, perhaps a faint outline was visible—of the ghosts of turrets and spires, and walls that had enclosed beloved friends in safety and kept enemies at bay. Or so Merlin imagined. 

Their cottage was nothing like that long-lost castle. He loved the large hearth and the cosy kitchen, the loft bedroom where he and Arthur slept. Outside in the garden Arthur had converted an old shed into a workroom so that he could become, of all things, a carpenter. It was astonishing to see the things Arthur built with his hands from scraps of wood, how intricate the designs were; when Merlin had asked about it the first time, Arthur had blushed, told him how when he was a child he’d wanted to become an apprentice to a local woodworker, but of course Uther hadn’t permitted it. Stubborn as ever, he’d still snuck from the castle every day before dawn for three years, and no one save the kind man who’d agreed to teach him ever knew until now. 

Merlin spent his time writing; he didn’t know if he’d ever have the courage to publish, though Arthur told him he’d be daft not to. For now, though, his words were just for him, for them, and he thought perhaps he’d keep it that way. 

It was a cold day in March. Merlin had lazed the morning away reading by the fire, when his stomach rumbled. Glancing at the clock above the mantle, he realised it was already past two, and that Arthur had been out working for nearly six hours. 

He bundled himself up and made a couple of hasty sandwiches, filling up a thermos of hot cider as well, and trudged through the muddy garden towards the shed. The air smelt of rain and wood-fire smoke, and his pulse quickened at the thought of catching Arthur unaware—he’d been building something in secret for weeks, and though Merlin had begged to see, Arthur had refused to satisfy his curiosity, declaring _it wasn’t ready yet_ , and _you’d think you of all people would have a little patience, Merlin._

Maybe he felt a little bad sneaking up on Arthur, but not really—only the day before Arthur had snatched Merlin’s notebook away and read his latest story without his permission, the git. Payback was fair. 

He opened the door slowly, grateful for the oiled hinges, and stared, nearly dropping his sandwiches at what he saw. 

Arthur stood hunched over what appeared to be a nearly exact replica of Camelot castle; it was nearly waist-height, and five feet across, at least, every one of the details perfect down to the courtyard and wide entrance steps. At the moment, Arthur was carefully sanding a portion of the curved tower where Morgana had once lived, before she’d lost her heart to evil. Merlin stood and watched as Arthur blew away the dust from the wood, every one of his gestures performed with love and diligence. 

“I know you’re there, Merlin,” Arthur said, his voice wry. “You think you’re so stealthy.”

Merlin startled, then laughed as Arthur turned towards him. “Sorry.” He bit his lip. “I brought you some sandwiches?”

Arthur held out his hand and beckoned. “Well, now that you’re here you better come get a closer look. It’s for you, anyway. It was _supposed_ to be a surprise.” 

“Arthur—” Merlin said as he came to stand next to Arthur, setting the food down on the workbench. “It’s amazing. It’s . . . I can’t believe it.” He reached out and tentatively touched the tiled roof, letting his hand fall, speechless. 

“Do you like it? I’m going to paint it, eventually, when it’s finished; I thought you might—”

“I love it. You’re incredible.” 

“I know. I know.” 

Something strange and familiar and wonderful welled up in Merlin, filling him with electricity. His entire body rushed with adrenaline. He threw himself into Arthur’s arms, hugging him tight as power surged through him and out through his fingertips into the air, warming the little room. Arthur’s cold nose pressed against his cheek.

“You feel warm,” he said, chuckling. “Like you’ve been sitting by the fire all day.” 

Merlin couldn’t speak, he was still vibrating with tension, his whole body aflame. His magic licked through him, calling to him, coming home. 

When they finally separated, Arthur’s expression changed, a smile of wonder spreading over his face as he cupped Merlin’s jaw. “Merlin, your eyes.” 

Merlin didn’t have to ask what Arthur saw; he knew they were glowing gold.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it, folks! I thank you for reading and commenting and following me on my journey through the insane minefield of Feels that the finale inspired. This was my lovesong for Merlin and Arthur, and I'm happy to leave them now in a good place. Together. 
> 
> Cheers, Mags. xo


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